Been haunted by a million screams…
Rivers of crimson.
Muted voices.
Metal grating metal.
Fear.
Fight.
Flee.
The violent force of his ass meeting the hardwood floor jolted him awake. Realization of how he came to be sprawled buck-ass naked across the unfamiliar shag carpet was instantaneous.
Another nightmare.
Tangled in blood soaked sheets and the shredded ruins of yet another mattress Logan grimaced. With a disgusted sigh he shook himself free of the cotton tatters clinging to his forearms, surveying the miniature war zone with contempt.
“Fuck.” The hoarse explicative revealed that his voice was raw and his throat ached. He’d been screaming. Again.
The damage surrounding him presented a scene all too recognizable. The bed was nearly a pile of splintered wood and the sheets were sliced to ribbons, the off-white fabric was a splattered crimson Rorschach from his own self inflicted wounds. Wearily he leaned his head back against what used to be a twin sized bed, eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling. He’d leave a wad of extra cash when he checked out to cover the damages he’d caused. Wouldn’t be the first time. Wouldn’t be the last.
The sting of wounds healing drew his gaze down to his thigh. He had laid himself open pretty good in his flailing, he noted with disdain, prodding the bone deep wound, sopping blood onto the fresh gouges he’d imbedded into the floor.
He lifted his hands towards his face, three long blades still fully extended. He winced, forcibly retracting the metal claws and flexing his hands. He moved his head and shoulders in circular motions, trying ineffectually to rid himself of the relentless disquiet that seemed to have seeped into his very bones. It wasn’t the presence of the foot long adamantium blades that disturbed him, he’d seen them often enough after his nightmares to know never to rub his eyes or tousle his hair, it was the fact that those hands were trembling.
Something in his dream had upset him.
A lot.
He didn’t bother to wonder what. Whoever had mind-fucked him those many years ago had done a spectacular job of it. Logan knew he wouldn’t be able to scrape together the remnants of his nightmare in any type of coherent fashion even if he tried, and for that he was simultaneously furious and thankful. Whatever hellish visions had invaded his dreams this night must have been particularly nasty.
He felt raw. Wounded…vulnerable.
It wasn’t a feeling he liked.
Before he made it a conscious thought, his hand fumbled along the nightstand, searching out his cigars and cell phone. The number he dialed was more instinctual than intentional.
She answered on the second ring. “Mmph…’lo?” Raspy from sleep, the voice on the other end sounded warm… inviting…safe.
He flexed his fingers against his handset, uncertain as to what to say, so he said nothing.
“Logan.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Hey, Storm.”
He could hear rustling, material scraping the receiver, as though she were sitting up in bed.
He shot a quick glance towards the clock on the wall. Even though the room was cast in deep shadows with no relief he could see the hands as clearly as if it were midday; which it certainly wasn’t. Just past three in the morning. Shit.
“It’s late--” He began, already regretting waking her.
“How bad was this one?” she cut in, all traces of sleep erased from her voice.
He ran a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose and exhaling. “Bad.”
“Do you remember any of it?” she inquired.
“No.” Was all he provided.
There was a moment of silence from both of them. “It’ll come,” she offered up gently.
Logan sighed, banging his head against the dismantled bed. How did he explain that he was almost more afraid of knowing than of never knowing. “How’s the kid?” he asked instead. “The kid” was Logan’s endearment regarding Marie, the young woman that had stowed away in the back of his truck one fateful, snowy day in Canada. She had immediately taken to him, regarding him as her personal hero. It was a mantle he secretly loathed and aspired to all at once.
Taking the evasive shift of subject in stride, Ororo responded, “Marie’s fine. She’s adjusted quite well to not having her powers. She misses you.” She did not bother to ask when he would be returning to the Institute; she never did. Logan surmised that she knew he’d eventually wander back. He always did.
Set against a backdrop of plush pine trees, manicured hedge work and a rolling expansive lawn, the Xavier Institute for Gifted Children sat overlooking sprawling grounds like an omnipresent protector, it’s brick and ivy laced walls offering refuge against the outside world.
Beautiful, elaborate, and mammoth in proportion it exuded wealth; exclusivity; safety. He knew first hand, however, just how deceiving looks could be, and the Institute was no exception. As impressive in magnitude as the centuries old mansion was, it was far from impregnable--had, in fact, been assaulted by an elite special forces team not four years past. An event that still sent a reverberating chill through his adamantium laced bones.
No, it wasn’t the stone slabs and mortar that safeguarded the youths housed at Xavier’s, but instead it was the teachers that resided within those hallowed walls that did the job. A staff of unique individuals, possessed with just as unique “gifts”, dedicating their lives to helping others like them belong. Fighting for mutant/human co-existence and willing to lay down their lives for that dream and to protect it--and each other.
Some of the children were placed in Xavier’s by loving parents, seeking only to help their children understand their mutations, most, however, were handpicked by the former Headmaster of the school, and founder, Charles Xavier. Plucked from, more often than not, dire circumstances and offered a place of welcome and of understanding.
Giving the strays a home.
Strays like him.
Absently Logan’s hand moved behind him to search for and touch the worn leather satchel he kept with him wherever he went. It’s contents: all that he had of his long forgotten past, and what few scraps he had managed to dig up on his most recent quest. He felt a momentary wistfulness for the man who used to help him with his jigsaw memory.
In the months since Charles’ passing, Logan hadn’t found it any easier to accept his helplessness in preventing that death. He had been less than a body length away from the man, he should have been able to do something. But in the end, he had only been able to watch as Xavier was turned to ash beneath the opaque, death-stare of his star pupil.
They say the greatest compliment a teacher can receive is the day their student surpasses them. Jean Grey not only surpassed Xavier, she surpassed humanity; eons of evolution bottled inside a fragile shell, incapable of withstanding the strain.
Like her mentor, Jean was also dead. Remembering her death was still painful but not as debilitating as it once was. It wasn’t a memory he cared to dwell on, but it was one he could live with. A fact that the woman on the phone had a lot to do with.
In the eight months since the events of Alcatraz and those leading up to it Logan had come to respect Ororo Munroe, but even more than that, he had grown to admire her. She had strength, integrity, and a generous nature. One that left her open for assholes like him to take advantage of, he thought, glancing at the clock again. The woman ran a multi-million dollar school and an elite squad of mutant vigilantes. Staying awake all hours of the night to comfort a grown man with bad dreams seemed like a frivolous waste of her time. “I should let you get back to sleep,” he commented, voice tight.
There was more rustling on the line, an oomph and a sigh. “How about I tell you about my day,” she suggested.
Logan felt a surge of emotion, akin to thankfulness. “Storm--”
“I damn near burnt the house down. Have I ever told you that I can’t cook?”
“No.”
“Okay, well, I can’t. I can barely boil water. Thank the stars above we have Bobby around.”
“Bobby can cook?”
Ororo laughed softly into the phone. “Hardly, but he can put out fires…”
For the next forty minutes Logan leaned his head back, letting her anecdotes and soothing voice slowly put him at ease. Only when he heard her voice crack, and the sleepy hint of rasp re-enter her cultured tones did he say goodnight again.
Her voice was whisper soft and laced with slumber. “Goodnight, Logan.”
He closed his phone. Closed his eyes. Slept.
From her lofty room, with spacious interior and an open balcony, Ororo studied the black and silver cell phone in her hand as though the small device contained the secret of creation within it’s center. Though her eyes were intently focused on the communicator, her mind was decidedly elsewhere.
Something in Logan’s’ voice had been off tonight. Well, more off than usual after a nightmare, she mentally corrected. She couldn’t imagine how horrible it was for him to have fragments of a past he couldn’t remember invade his sleep each night. Charles had told her once that the reason for Logan’s frequent nightmares was that it was the only time his mind could handle what had been done to him. Having known Charles for as long as she had, Ororo knew from the tone in his voice that whatever had been done to Logan had been horrific and her mentor‘s refusal to elaborate only cemented that.
With a sigh she tossed the phone back onto her nightstand and flopped back onto her pillow, blowing an errant strand of snow white hair from her lashes. She didn’t bother to close her eyes, she knew she wouldn’t be going back to sleep. Instead she would lay there until the crack of dawn, wondering and worrying about the man with the haunted past.
She rolled onto her side, facing her window. She watched the branches sway in the breeze, wondering just how she could help Logan with his struggles. Ever since he had come to join them, she had wondered about him. She had kept her distance, letting him get used to being a member of a team. He had been the loner for so long, she knew he needed time to adjust. Something, she thought with a glimmer of a smile, he was still doing.
She was thankful for Marie, because the young girl gave him a sense of purpose. Ororo knew that Logan regarded himself as Marie’s personal protector, and she also knew that he needed that role more than he could ever admit, perhaps even more than he knew.
Then, of course, there had been Jean, who had given him a reason to stay--and to return. Jean Grey was the archetype for which Logan would hold any other woman against. She was perfection in his eyes. Flawless in every way.
Even when she was raining down destruction and death, Logan only saw faultlessness in her actions. In his mind Phoenix and Jean were not one and the same.
Ororo didn’t fault him that logic. She understood why he needed to believe that Jean was still Jean, even as she killed Xavier. Killed Scott. Killed hundreds. Because if Jean was Jean and not that monster Phoenix, then he was Logan and not the animal Wolverine. It was never something he voiced, yet somehow, she knew she was right.
He put on a good show, but there was so much turmoil beneath his rugged exterior, and she had no idea how to help him deal with it.
Stirring her hair with her hands in agitation, Ororo gave up the futile attempt at rest and rose to greet the day.
Dawn
Embraced by worn leather and surrounded by silence, Logan watched as night gave up its struggle and surrendered to the impending morning. Grey fingertips of muted light stretched over the horizon, reaching for the star dotted heavens, wiping the slate clean.
If only it were that easy.
Logan, put off by his own thoughts, unrolled his map, smoothing the paper over the seat of his motorcycle. One blunt finger traced the route he’s outlined in red, logging it into his memory. He had near photographic recollection and lightning fast recall. Whether those abilities were natural or given to him he couldn’t say, but all in all, they came in handy.
He shivered, pulling his collar up beside his ears. It was damn cold outside. Every now and again the sky would shed a random flake or two, but any substantial snow was still a ways off.
The wind whipped through his hair, ruffling the strands, causing him to once more glance at the horizon. His hair was as dark as the receding night, shaggy, and disheveled no matter how he wore it. He ran one hand across his chin, scratching the stubble there. He hadn’t bothered to shave this morning, not that it would have mattered if he had, his whiskers grew back almost as fast as he cut them. He’d been told, more than once, that his “scruffy” look only added to his dark, dangerous appeal. It was those same looks that had the morning check out girl in the motel practically salivating with lust when he paid for his room damages.
Topping off at over six feet, but with a breadth nearly as wide as he was tall, many people underestimated his height, but never his power. His profession, before Xavier and his band of merry X-men had found him, had been that of a cage fighter. Pounding the shit out of hulking brutes had kept his muscles toned and defined. Since leaving that “occupation” he had developed a training routine that bordered on punishing to keep himself in the same solid shape. It was a shape that rarely went unnoticed.
Satisfied that he had everything he needed for his trip Logan re-rolled the map, stuffing it into his satchel, his breath creating small plumes in the frigid morning air. He strapped his pack to the bike and zipped his jacket. He didn’t bother with a helmet, any material they were made from was far more fragile than that of his adamantium fortified skull, but he did slide a pair of wrap-around sunglasses over his eyes and pulled on a pair of custom made leather gloves to ward off winter’s sting. He flexed, stretching the dark material over his knuckles. There, in between the ridges were small, reinforced slits. Just wide enough for his claws to bust through without ruining the expensive, handcrafted gloves.
Seared brown by winter’s icy touch, grass crunched under his boots as he swung himself astride his motorcycle. At one time the bike had belonged to Scott Summers, but that had been some time ago, and upon the X-Man’s death Logan had been surprised-- and that was a severe understatement-- to learn that he had been willed the custom machine. In an odd sort of homage, Logan had changed the license plate to read “Cyke”.
Now, the well maintained machine revved to life beneath him, it’s engine roar cutting through the silent dawn with all the ferocity of a lion tearing down it’s prey. Swerving out onto the road, Logan let the bike rip. He had to give credit where credit was due, and though he may have thought of Scott as an uptight prick, the man knew how to maintain his equipment. The bike moved.
The dark, rural road was empty-- no surprise considering the time of day-- giving him free reign of the pavement. Reign he took full advantage of, pushing the motorcycle in excess of 200 miles per hour, flying down the pavement at breakneck speed.
Whipping past his peripheral, bare branches glimmered with crystalline beauty, their naked bark covered by a layer of glittering frost. Beautiful as it was, Logan didn’t pay the scenery any mind. He was focused on the road ahead…because it may be the one to lead him to the life he left behind.
